He imagined the room bathed in blood, himself striding through it, a raven amongst the carcasses. Strutting like any carrion king.

Lead looked to his hand and saw sparkling chunks of glass in the cracks of the road. He saw ants running around the cracks, infinitely small. His blood ran into the cracks, creating rivers for the industrious ants to perplex over. Lead smiled at the creatures, for he understood that there is no difference between them and us in their wanderings and labor.

Hard to think about chasing after someone when your own femur was sticking up out of your skin like a lollipop gushing blood

It is bloody hard,

Bloody medieval most of them

It's always bin a bloody world, she says. Only nowadays, some people's blood is better than others.